confusion in her bones & fire in his eyes
by within a sepulchre
Summary: derrick and massie have a complicated relationship.  massington four-shot for mi hannah banana. au. COMPLETE.
1. surprise

**a/n-** If you don't want to read this long author's note, then I suggest that you just skip down to the story; it won't hurt my feelings.(:

So, this is a **four-shot, **instead of just an ordinary one-shot; I didn't intend for that to happen, but it, um, did. And this is my first multi-chap. Even if it's small, it still counts!

Ahem. **Hannah** (in the jungle dances). I've no idea whatsoever where this came from. /facepalm. But happy, bee-lated birthday, gurrl, and you deserve the best, not this piece of arse. And I swear that, really, fifteen is an awesome age, and you're gonna love it. Possibly more than Darren Criss, but no age is that hot, so maybe not. O.o But Happy [Belated] Birthday, anyway, and I hope you like it, Hannah.(: (That goes for everyone else, as well.)

Thank you to Emmy (gossip goat) for beta-ing the first chapter and telling me that this is actually worth publishing. Much love, Em!3

And to everyone else, I shout out a thanks, because I get inspired by all of your wonderful fictions on here.

And to the technical notes****:****

**Pairing- **Since I was slightly desperate, I opted for the you-can-never-go-wrong pairing. Yes, this is a Massington. /facepalming for the unoriginality. Thankfully, it's not your typical one.

**Structure note- **Massie's age is depicted by the bold, centered word. If it's not, then that means it's present time. Derrick is two years older than her.

**Prompts- **freckles, cream cheese, and ice. (Let me just say now that I inserted the prompts really clumsily, and you probably won't even notice that they're there. Sorry about that.)

And, **warnings- **This has language, some of the crude, sexual variety; it also has overdone descriptions, too dim settings, and strange circumstances. It's also very, very dramatic. There is something sketchy and definitely disturbing in this fiction; tell me in a review or pm, if I should change this to "M," instead of "T."

Enjoy?

**confusion in her bones & fire in his eyes**

.

Massie likes cigarettes, though considering her almost royal lineage, it should be a towering "nuh-uh," but she's decided that she wants such a bad, defiant habit in her life and that's really just that. Unfortunately, she's not really knowledgeable on how to smoke one, considering she can't get the damned lighter in her hand to actually light. So, here she perches on a ceramic toilet seat in $1000 heels with a Berkin slung over her shoulder, and a dress stretching so damn tight over her hips that she's sure it's going to burst soon enough. But does she really give a shit? No, she doesn't, because she's Massie Block, and she's determined to light the damn thing without blowing the roof off the restaurant. Forgetting to aforemention this detail, she's in a posh place that primarily speaks a cross between French and Belgian and tends to service prim ladies with leathery faces, emerald brooches, and Yves Saint Laurent adornments.

With a huff, she plops relentlessly down, allowing her precious heels to skim the shiny, marble floor; she clicks the lighter, finds a flame at last, and breathes a sigh or relief, the flame extinguishing from this exhale.

She resists a curse, and is glad, because footsteps promptly enter the bathroom door, and a hoarse (maybe he has a cough?) male voice parades through her senses. So much for looking at the male or female diagrams on the door.

"If you had done it right, you wouldn't be in this position with me right now-" she hears shrieking, - "who cares if your mom got home; jerking me-"

Despite her complete and utter un-naivety, she can't help but oof a little gasp, which is clearly audible, signaled by her male counterpart's sharp intake. A beep and a click forewarns the end of his vile conversation with the poor girl.

Shit.

"Who's in here?"

And she just can't help herself, "It's your slut, ready to do your bidding, your Highness."

She hears him breathe in sharply and mutter an expletive.

"Come out now, Massie." She pauses. Who is this?

"I'd rather not," she clicks the lighter, recovering with a shake of her head. Everyone knows her, anyway.

"What do you have in there?"

"Nothing," lowering herself to the ground, she straightens her dress (which is practically impossible, since the peach satin isn't budging), and tucks a ramrod straight strand of hair behind her ear. Pausing, she flicks out any possible eye boogies, and shoves the lighter and cigarette into her orange Berkin. Damn. She'll just have to try it later.

"Trying to smoke a ciggie and trigger the smoke alarm in the men's room isn't really the best idea," he inserts. She can taste his arrogance. God, does she ever hate stupid man whores and their pain-in-the-ass stupidity. Especially this one, this really, kind of, possibly familiar male voice.

She rolls her eyes, but submits. She might be Massie Block, but she's not a dumbass. She takes an annoyed breath, clangs the latch open, and regrets it instantly; before her stands one of the most gorgeous, horrible, terrible, completely and wholly horrendous shitters in the whole damn nation, one she's not even supposed to be around.

"Derrick Harrington," she states, swallowing. He grimaces in surprise, his wide pink mouth turning even more bow-like; his hair is a light brown, not so blond, but rather highlighted with a creamy flaxen that she remembers all to well; his eyes are the same deep chocolate color that turns her to jelly whenever she stares at them too long.

She can't believe that she thought he was some Briarwood boy. How had she forgotten the voice of her childhood terror and love, even through a smoky throat-

"Oh, joy," he says coolly, eyes flicking at the ceiling briefly, before promptly training on hers. She bites her gum, hoping to keep down the blush that his smirk and eyes, his eyes, fuck it, and his lips-

"Massie?"

"What?" she replies quickly, hoping, wishing that he hadn't realized her aversion, because that would definitely be horrible, and he would never, ever let her live it down, because he's derrick, and he catches things like that.

"Why are you smoking?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are," he attests. He takes a step closer.

"I'm not!" she exclaims, "and if I were, it's not your business anyway."

He grins languorously, "Oh, but it is, Mass; you've always been my business. Ever since we were ten, remember?"

She does remember.

.

**ten**

Massie's in the yard, running from her Hamptons summerhouse to the beach where no one will make her eat all vegetables for dinner because she looks like she's getting _a bit on the chubby side_; the beach is friendly. She reaches her destination, quickly regaining her breath from the vitality storage that all youngsters have. She glances at the foam cresting, that whipped cream on a very dense, monstrous wave, the loud, booming, smashing, the almost inky black shade; probably hiding a shark right next to that pointy rock. Or the buoy. It's probable that there's one circling there. She decides that the actual ocean isn't so friendly in a whole and settles for picking up seashells, and resting her feet in the water.

"Don't go in there. A shark'll getcha."

She turns around, rolling her eyes all the way, "I'm not scared of them." Lie.

"Oh, really?" He has blond hair with peculiar brown streaks and a angular face, already beginning to make its way to maturity; she can't see his eyes which makes her glad, because she thinks that they may be pretty. Really, really pretty- she acts dumb when boys have pretty eyes-

"Hellooooo? What's your name, dip wad?"

Offended, she snaps, "It's Massie." He brushes his hair back.

"I bet you can't swim to that buoy." He obviously gets to the point quickly.

She swallows hard through a dry throat, but never takes her eyes from his. If there's one thing that she 's learned about intimidation and not letting someone know that you're scared is by not blinking or turning away. She sees all the adults do it. Especially her mommy when the mailman comes to the door.

"Yes, I can," she states as solidly as her quivering voice will allow.

He raises his eyebrows, but nods approvingly, "Okay, then. Go ahead."

"What will I get for it?" She shivers in the suddenly breezy night air.

"You'll just have to see," he grins, and even in the dark, she can see straight, white teeth. Even her teeth aren't that straight.

Embarrassed and jittery, she shakily shouts, "Turn around!"

"Why?"

"Because I have to get out of some of these clothes!" She can see his smile widen, but he obeys, nevertheless.

Keeping a close eye on him, she removes her slim, beige cardigan (which she regrets instantly), her casual cotton pants, her Madden flats, and her little beret, which leaves her in her fire engine-red panties and a sports bra that has no residence to conceal. She blushes profusely but backs into the chilled water, before submerging everything except her head. She yells, "Okay! I'm in."

"Well, then swim, doofus!"

She dismally examines the extremely far-off buoy bouncing haphazardly around. Probably her shark warming up, so he can eat her when she gets there.

She breathes and soaks into her thoughts; just like her yoga teacher instructs. She needs to be in another place, her swimming pool, maybe. She envisions the invisible fumes of chlorine and icy blue waves; she can hear her mother's laughter when she's reading a magazine by the poolside. Or her screaming, she's not really sure.

"Massie, dammit, get out of there!" Oh. Over her bobbing head and undulating arms, she can see her mother standing at the shoreline, her willowy skirt streaming, her arms flailing in the air. She realizes that the mystery boy is gone, disappeared, and she can't help but feel utterly stupid for even trying to swim this far.

She glances at the buoy; it's a good way out. She decides that relaxing is probably her best option, opposed to panicking or swimming back to her mother's wrath, so she extends her arms, admiring her French manicure, before laying her head back. Sea water sputters over her and threatens to wash over her face, but she ignores it because she's Massie Block, she really is, and she's not gonna let some cute boy make her mad-

Something brushes her leg. "It's just.. leaves ," she murmurs to herself, clenching her eyes. Though she's pretty sure that leaves don't exist in the ocean.

Distraction, distraction. The sky is nice. The stars glitter and wink at her, maybe for luck, but she's not certain of that. She spots Orion, the warrior constellation; her father had taught her a few of them, but that was back when he actually liked her. Now, he pays no attention to her, unless he's warning her to do what her mom instructs. Because everyone knows that William Block is so gonna bring out a belt on his ten year old daughter. Yeah, right. Even she knows that her dad isn't cruel; he just doesn't love her anymore. Her mom gives her the your-father's-just-not-that-into-you-speech almost daily.

She lets a tear slip out, because it's so dark, and she doesn't really want to care, anyway; her mom is bellowing now, threatening her, pacing the shoreline. She reasons to herself that she's going nowhere until her father swims to her. That's it. She's not getting out til' then-

Something tickles her ankle. She gasps, slapping a wet hand over her mouth, which is a mistake considering the waves are becoming larger and rougher, and her head is beginning to sink underwater from the force. She remembers hearing that sharks nibble on their victims before really biting them. Oh, God. She's gonna die, she's gonna die, she's gonna die. Daddy- she's never going to see him again; she won't be able to tell him goodbye and that she loves him, and that she's so sorry for whatever she's done to make him hate her-

Someone's laughing next to her ear. "I scared you good, didn't I?"

She jumps back in the water; his head bobs, his hair plastered to his head. And then she sees his eyes close up. They're not blue, the opposite, actually, but the most beautiful chocolate; she's never seen a color so rich, so deep that can actually take her breath away. But considering that the shark is probably circling them, that her mom is going to kill her, that they might just drown, and that she's so angry right now, she's not sure if it's his pretty eyes or not that's causing palpitations.

In a split decision, she decidedly slaps him as hard as she can with the back of her hand, flat-out across his pale cheekbone. The plat echoes. When he lifts his head, his cheek a glowing scarlet, his eyes are a combination of tears and fire; she feels scared suddenly, and begins to paddle to the shore as quickly as she can, because she hasn't see such genuine hurt and anger like that before.

His hand grabs her roughly around the wrist, and she can't help but scream. His eyes are fiery, but determined, "We made a bet, Massie Block." How does he know her last name? She didn't tell him her last name- she's sure of it.

"Keep it."

He disappears under a crest. The buoy bounces high. Her mom's scream are closer.

She dives under the cool water, her hair sticking to her neck; she swims and swims and swims, until she can't breath anymore and surfaces. The buoy is just in front of her. She trembles, but elongates her hand out anyway to touch it. A pale, bony hand emerges out of the horror, twisting her finger, and bringing her under. She kicks out until she feels her feet clash with bony flesh, warm even underwater. They come above, her trying to slap him again, and him just trying to make her be still.

"Your prize, m'lady," he holds up a string of seaweed, appearing bruised but unaffected.

"This is what you give me for all this? That's not fair!" She screams, wiping the seawater from her burning eyes.

He shrugs, one arm strung around the orange buoy, "Life's not fair."

"And how would you know? You're only ten."

"I'm twelve, actually."

She sputters, "But I thought-"

He laughs, splashing her face with salty water. She's temporarily blinded. During this, she feels something brushing her lips; something soft and moist, but considering she's in the ocean, it could be anything.  
>"Your prize," warm breath hits her mouth.<p>

She gasps, blinking rapidly, only to find nothing but a much calmer ocean, a swaying buoy, and a malicious mom tramping the beach. And not a sign of her dad, of course.

.

"I remember you being a creeper," she shakes her head.

He chuckles a bit, before extending his hand. She freezes, breathing in abruptly.

"Give me the cigarette, Mass."

She's disappointed in him and herself, "No, Derrick."

"Give it to me," he commands, voice deep and low.

"Why do you care?" She hates being so damned confused all the time. With her dad being permanently MIA in China, and her mom flaunting herself around Westchester with her Chihuahua, she's been having a lot of that emotion lately. Actually, she's had it all her life.

He jabs at a finger at his chest, "Because I work here, dumbass."

"How was I supposed to know, Derrie?" she fumes, but pushes down any serious offense, because she wouldn't feel right calling him nasty names, even after everything that's happened.

He freezes for a moment, his eyes unintelligible.

"Derrie, huh?"

"Yeah," she says quietly, flushing.

.

**Twelve**

"You can kiss my derriere, Derrie!" She teases, leaping across the trampoline. His hands are braced on the opposite side, his eyes promising diabolic things that she doesn't yet understand. The concealing ways of life have yet to come to her, though she knows, she really does, that there's a secret she has yet to discover.

"Maybe, I will, Mass."

"Ew. Why would you do that?" She wrinkles her nose at his half-serious tone.

"Because you have a nice ass!"

She gasps, a blush swallowing her cheeks at his audacity, "Don't curse, Derrie! My mom might hear you."

She's not the most innocent of creatures, no, she's not. But she's blatantly unaware of anything dealing with the human anatomy, due to her mother's withdrawing her from school at ten years old because she "couldn't trust her." Something's wrong with it, though she has a hard time figuring exactly what.

"Your mom doesn't hear anything, Massie," he says gravely.

"No, she doesn't," she agrees, smiling sickly, feeling bad and depressed suddenly, as if a hole has been ripped into her chest, and a carton of lead has been dropped to fill the empty place.

"Let's go watch a movie, beautiful." She giggles in her adolescent persona, leaving her past thoughts in the trampled grass. Ever since that night at the beach, she's learned that her mystery boy's name is Derrick Harrington and that he had just moved to Westchester at the time. As many Westchester residents did, he migrated to the Hamptons during the summer. It was pure coincidence that he had climbed the fence to their private section of the beach and ran into her. (That was what he told her mother.) But to Massie, he explained that he had seen her in her yard playing with the dog (she doesn't really remember that actually), and that he had wanted to see her closer, so he sneaked onto their beach and found her sitting there. Completely coincidence.

She's realized of late that Derrick is much more mature than her. The way he moves, looks, and talks seems much older than her. He gets this small, mysterious smile when he looks at her sometimes; when they curl up closely for longer than an hour, he usually excuses himself, a flush in his cheeks, and a fluster about his countenance, and heads to the bathroom for a while.

"Massie, come oon!"

She smiles, and makes her way to the guesthouse, their main dwelling of choice for tv, games, and the like. He's seated on the slick leather couch, a bowl of low-calorie popcorn glued to his lap, and a Sprite in his hand; he pats the vacancy next to him.

"Turn the light off, dummy."

She takes a moment to skim over his bedraggled blond hair, becoming more brown as autumn comes upon them, his concentrated shade of molten cocoa eyes, and his protruding cheekbones.

"What?" he takes his eyes of the tv.

"Nothing," she whispers, flicking off the light switch.

His eyes glow as she sits down, grabbing a handful of dull, puffy popcorn.

"What were you thinking, Mass?" He murmurs in her ear. His breath is hot and tickly, and she pushes against his chest to stop the admittedly pleasant feeling.

"Nothing, I said." She's not even sure what she was thinking about. Up close, with the tv flickering fluorescent lighting upon them, she can see his brown _freckles _sprinkling a trail of realism across his nose and cheeks.

"You have the cutest freckles," she says, immediately regretting it. He smiles and kisses her on the nose, his arm wrapping around her. She thinks she should feel uncomfortable, but the warmth and weight on her shoulders isn't so bad; she lays her head on his neck, finding that he smells of musk, chlorine, and a light spray of her Chanel, which should be weird, she guesses, but since they spend so much time together, it only makes sense. She thinks.

She freezes, feeling his lips on her forehead.

And then the phone rings, and the strange moment shatters. She lets out a shaky sigh, not even noticing his intense, penetrating look.

"Massie? Massie? Where are you?" She rolls her eyes at Derrick.

"I'm in the guesthouse, mom, with Derrick."

"I don't want you to hang around him so much anymore, hon. Please come up to the house," her mom requests softly.

She's confused again.

"I-"

"What does she want?" Derrick whispers loudly.

She covers the mouthpiece, "She wants me to go to the house."

"Why?"

She hesitates.

"Mass?" His eyes flick across her face and to the phone; he crosses his arms and cocks a brow.

"Because she wants me away from you."

The look in his eyes transports her back to that day when she slapped him. He looks just as angry, thunderous, almost.

"Let me talk to her," he demands, eyes bright and roiling.

"I-I- don't think so, Derrick." His look scares her. "Maybe I should go."

"Don't do it, Mass; don't leave me," he commands. His breathing is labored; he grabs her quickly, kissing her cheeks, his hands flying to her face, stroking her cheekbones; her breath is swept away, "Don't go up there."

"Why not?" She mumbles, uncomfortable, fumbling with his eerie grip on her.

"Because she doesn't deserve you." She pulls away, despite him, and heads to the door, disbelief coursing through her when she hears him behind her.

"Just let me go see what she wants-"

"She wants you away from me, Massie! Dammit, how can't you see that?"

She sighs, "I'm sorry, Derrick, but she's my mother."

"She's a bitch and a whore. If you walk out, you're-"

She slams the door in his face, tears rushing down her face; her heart punches an excruciating cavern into her chest.

.

She glances at him. He shakes his head, hair flying around.

"How do you work here with your hair that long? Isn't that against policy?"

He grins wanly, "The old ladies love it, so it's good for the business."

"Those old women must have Alzheimer's then."

"So, you don't like it?" A puppy-dog look, almost, is cast her way.

"No." Lie.

There's an awkward silence where the only sound is a toilet running; their eyes study each other, but there's not much that they haven't seen of the other.

She attempts to move out; he grabs her wrist, "The cigarette."

She blinks away some tears, disappointed yet again with his lackluster attitude, "I'm leaving,"; she glances backwards, "I guess you never planned on coming back, did you?"

His eyes contain a strange glitter that she doesn't dwell on, "I-"

She rips her arm away and rushes out of the restaurant and into a harsh downpour of rain.

.

**a/n-** Dah, dah, dah, dumm. I want to go ahead and insert that this four-shot is already completed, and I will update about every week, but I would really love some feedback along the way. So. Um, yeah. **Review?**


	2. unlawful

**a/n- **Thank you to everyone for the really awesome reviews. (To _mapped out_, since I can't reply to your review: thank you very much for your considerate comments. I appreciate it, and I'm glad that you liked this.) Everything applies to this chapter as it did to the first.

Oh, and I almost forgot: **disclaimer- **I own nothing; all goes to Lisi; along with that, any brand names mentioned.

Hannah Banana, again, Happy Belated Birthday, and I hope you (and everyone else) like this chapter!(:

**Twelve**

She's sitting under a huge, yet oddly friendly, oak tree in her backyard; it's dark, deathly quiet, and surprisingly soothing. Her hands wrap habitually and restlessly around brown, crunchy leaves, while her frigid feet curl within her furry boots. It's winter, and it's _cold_. She breathes purposefully hard into the air, and smiles a sweet smile at the visible fumes of carbon dioxide and other nameless stuff spewing into the air that she's forgotten the names of. She lays her head back on a rough canvass of bark, hoping that the ants are too cold to get all creepy-crawly on her head.

It's ticking near midnight; she sits platonically still, an empty mind frolicking near a slight doze and a distant, mental fear. An owl hoots. Or is it a dove? But she's pretty sure that doves coo, not hoot, and that they aren't nocturnal. She probably reminds her prowling owl of a little mouse, sneaky and raunchy and diffident; in a moment, his wings might even swoop near her, and his claws might reach for an arm to grasp. She shivers suddenly. The cold doesn't usually bother her at all. It's rather the heat that induces grumpy fits and weather repugnance. But this is different. This is obvious.

Leaves curls across the yard, and the clear, star-speckled sky seems to fog before her eyes. It's then that a hand with very long claws grabs her arm. She squeals, immediately chastised with a loud shh and a hard squeeze of sharp talons.

"What the hell are you doing out here, Massie?" Her mom roughly inquires, her voice low and grating. She wears a chic, lavender robe, her hair a mountain of slick, dark curls and purposefully loose strands; her eyes flick cunningly and knowingly across her.

"Nothing, Kendra."

A burst of red into her mother's cheekbones and then, "You can't call me that-"

"It's your name, isn't it?"

Oh, glory, the anger. She ducks a scathing blow. "How dare you talk to me like that-"

She catches her mom's hand between clenched fingers, a surprised look swathing her ever pretty face.

"Why did you make Derrick leave?"

Her mom's eyes are clear, inky-black pools, always bordering on indiscernible; she shakes her head just slightly.

"Why?"

Her mom's hands are out of her own. "Because you're my daughter, and I love you, and I don't want you to get hurt."

She snorts.

"That's rude and not ladylike, Massie. Don't do that again," her mom tears at her arms in an apparent attempt to warm them, "can't we go inside and talk, darling?"

"No."

Her mom appears uncomfortable, "There's stuff I've yet to tell you, Massie, about life, personal things, womanly things-"

"What does this have to do with Derrick-"

"Just come inside, please, Massie. It's time that you knew."

She regards her mom for a resistant second, but nods, nevertheless. She takes a glance backwards at the sprawling branches of the monstrous tree, at the sparse brown grass that her mother has shockingly neglected, and at the pair of glowing caramel eyes peeking from the borderline bushes. She shivers again, knowing instinctively that the anxiety that she's suddenly feeling isn't unprecedented. The eyes disappear in a wink and in the flinching pinch of her mom's hand.

.

The rain is icy and startling; she likes it and hates it simultaneously, loving its appeal, but despising its drenching coat; just running in the streets and dancing and basking and enjoying herself actually slips itself in her head. Despite its lingering allure, she's not in the mood, and thinks it absurd and stupid. She used to not think that way, not when she was in her good girl to bad girl-transition phase.

It's a wet, bittersweet trek to her Jaguar; she plops on the leather seat and lays her head back, a forlorn whip striking her heart.

And she feels it sweep over her, something like a panic attack, yet with different symptoms that no one could truly diagnose:

Her vision sees a slow motion vision of pattering rain across the windshield. Everything seems to move that way or simply faster; the outside tables' yellow-striped umbrellas ferociously whip with the wind as if they've been conformed to some sort of cyclone. The neon bursts of yellow crowd her vision; she grinds her eyes into her sweaty hands, exhaling roughly and trying not to hyperventilate.

The car door slams (She thought that she'd locked the door), and hands shake her shoulders. Someone's yelling in her ear, but it's coming to her senses, deep and slow, so slowly, that she just can't make it out. A liquid touches her lips, swirls in her mouth, almost triggering her gag reflex; it burns, but it's sweetly familiar, so she swallows in a greedy gulp, her body instantaneously relaxing. Her head aches; she realizes that her hands aren't alone but entwined with long-fingered, hairy ones. She sighs grittily.

"Why did you follow me, Derrick?"

"Because I knew that seeing me could cause this to happen," he says softly, hands tightening.

"Please leave me alone."

"You know I can't," he whispers.

She shoots him a confused glance, "You have the past few years."

He smiles wearily, a tired arch in his brow and a sigh, barely concealed, whispering around his mouth.

"Oh," she comprehends, wondering how she could have ever forgotten his excellent stalker skills.

He tries to pull her closer.

She slaps his hands and body away and demands, "Get out of my car!"

"I know you're mad, Mass, but it's for the wrong reasons."

"No, I'm angry at _you _for leaving and then sleeping with every willing girl you could find; I'm angry at you, because you're a jerk to women, so do me a favor, and get out of the fucking car ," she almost snarls, attempting placation with an inner melody.

He wrestles with her, somehow managing to fling her in the tiny backseat; she screams and hollers, but through the rain, it's unfortunately inaudible. He's in the driver's seat, placing a hand on her squirming abdomen.

"There's things that we need to get straight, Massie. It will make you angrier at me, but you'll understand and forgive me in the end," his eyes are a solid fortress of confidence, nothing betraying his faith in his words, "I know you will."

She slaps his hand away, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Why are you such a potty mouth, Mass? You used to be-"

"I don't care what I used to be," she snaps, glaring into his scrutinizing gaze.

He stays silent then, his face releasing into some sort of disappointment, before he shrugs himself out of it and revs the car.

She attempts to escape by diving into the front seat, though she really had no idea what she'd do when she got there. Maybe tear his head off or snip his testicles?

She's immediately flung into the backseat, her hands forcibly compressed to the leather framing. Metal clangs, and her wrists are thereafter strapped with handcuffs. He gives her a disapproving look and a eye roll as she struggles to pull some Angelina Jolie-esque move on his ass.

She sits suddenly still, breath lost and seething, "You planned this."

She can hear the smile, see it in the crease next to his eye.

"Fuck you."

.

**Twelve**

She's blatantly terrified after the blunt, ten minute conversation that her mother had hastily thrown upon her. She feels shaky and scared, because something has broken in her, and she doesn't know what, or why she's feeling so terrible. She wants to throw up, but she doesn't want her mom to think less of her, or think she's just not mature enough to know about female parts and male parts and where they join and all the mechanics and everything after. She's ruffled and disorganized, and she hates it. She just wants her normality. Whatever she was twenty minutes ago, sitting next to her oak, she wants to be again. Unaffected and accompanied by prowling Derrick, who she's suddenly wary of and for good reason, according to her mom. She shivers at the chill in the air and wraps her Marc Jacobs scarf around her neck. She needs to be strong, and only her trembling resolve is helping her now.

He always comes from the dark, out of the shaded bushes, usually:

"You ok?" His voice is deepening; she's not certain what it's a sign of, but she thinks it's a male maturity kind of thing.

"Yeah," she says, her voice a bit too high-pitched and her cheeks just a little too red. A hand ruffles out from the spiky bushes and clasps hers.

She pulls her hand away uneasily, breathing out slowly.

"Mass? Come on. What's wrong?" The hand reaches, catches, and squeezes, intent on keeping its object contained.

She tries to pull away again, but he doesn't allow it. His brown, blond-strewn head emerges from the bushes, scratches skewered across his face, a gigantic auburn leaf plastered to his cheek. She can't help a shy giggle, grabbing the vibrant leaf quickly and tearing it obsessively into jagged pieces. He lets go of her other hand and grabs her mobile one, bringing it back to his face.

He stares, head just slightly cocked in concentration. She attempts a wiggle away, but doesn't really succeed.

"Der-"

"Tell me what's wrong-"

"Stop being so damn bossy!" She yells, him releasing her.

"You cursed?" He appears almost shell-shocked, as if she had punched him in the face, instead of merely uttering a simple obscenity.

She blushes, just slightly, "Yeah; I mean, what's wrong with that?"

"You don't do that, Mass. I do. Not you.."

"Well, things change, Derrick," she replies simply, standing up, hating how bratty she sounds. She tries to burn the dread, fear, and hurt-like blanket lain across her chest, but finds that it's not really working.

She meets his eyes, his beautiful, confused, darkening eyes, "I need to go inside-"

"Mass, what happened-"

She walks away, swallowing down tears, intent on a teary shower and a downy bed, rather than the suspicion that all Derrick has ever wanted from her is to take away her 'virginity.' Or so her mother told her.

He whisper-yells her name, but she doesn't answer.

.

"Where are you taking me, asshole?" She arches against her metallic prison, clanging back and forth.

He doesn't answer, just continues his effortless driving and tuneless humming.

She gurgles a sound of frustration and rage, flinging her leg into the front seat. He chuckles, grabs her convulsing ankle, and kisses the delicate bone. She struggles, but his grip is tight, merciless, and horrifically arousing. She wants to tell him to stop making out with her ankle, but she's not really sure that she actually wants him to halt his actions.

He stops the car, pauses the nipping on her ankle, and looks her straight into the eye, "You haven't really changed, Mass- I can still drive you crazy-"

"You definitely drive me crazy," she says hoarsely, teeth gritting, not hiding the anger in her limbs and body.

"I mean, in other ways." He slides a finger to her kneecap; she decides that enough really is enough, so she withdraws her leg, bruising it in the process, but saves her pride.

"Don't touch me, please."

"What's the fun in that?" He stares at her rosy pink cheeks, at her quivering hands, at her tightly closed legs, and shoots her a gentle, knowing smile," we'll be there soon, Mass."

"Where?"

He doesn't reply, just leaves her pulse racing and humiliation level rising. He could always read her, and, apparently, that hasn't changed.

.

**Thirteen**

It's spring break: the leaves, the grass, even the trees, smell fresh in their own intricate way; the air is clear and fresh, occasionally being loitered by the smoke of a neighbor's barbecue, but nice, nonetheless. She's sitting in the middle of the her yard, a literature book opened in her lap; she's distracted, though, her focus entirely on other things.

Her emotions have settled, especially because her avoidance skills are up to par; even though Derrick's a sneak, even he can't break into the Block's house. Not that she thought that he really would want to, but-well-it's Derrick. His determination is practically unmatched, as she sees it, and almost, simultaneous to this thought, she senses him.

The bushes suddenly begin to ruffle; she stands up quickly, making a getaway, only to lose her footing and fall down. Footsteps race to her.

"You okay, Massie?"

She sighs hopelessly. Of course, this was going to happen eventually.

"Yeah," she mumbles, taking his hand for leverage, removing it, and beginning to walk away.

"Wait, Massie, come on. I haven't talked to you, haven't really even seen you in three months. Please talk to me," he takes her hand, "what did I do so wrong?"

She shakes away his sweaty palm, "Nothing- I've just been busy. Like I am now. So, if you don't mind-"

"I do mind-"

She gives him a condescending eye roll and slips into the glass door, locking it. He follows, and shoots her a shocked look when he finds that it won't open.

She hears his muffled "Let me in," but ignores it as she grabs a bagel and knife, retrieves the _cream cheese _and slathers it all over the doughy bread; he knocks hard on the door.

She groans, turns around, and mouths, "I'll see you later."

"When?"

She places her food down on the counter and scribbles a "12:00," impatiently smashing it to the window; he nods, looking a bit sad, when the front door suddenly receives a knock. She feels like having a hissy fit, but takes the sophisticated road by walking slowly to the door and smiling when she opens it.

A mailman stands there awkwardly, a huge bouquet of scarlet roses framing his arms; he smiles, "Well, hey there, pretty lady. Mind giving me a hand?" She resists a blush, slapping herself for being lame and hormonal.

"Right through the foyer," he nods in response, almost jogging to his destination. She throws him a twenty, wanting him out, as her eyes spot an accompanying note.

"You don't have to-" she stares at him, giving him a are-you-really-being-this-stupid-kind of look. He chuckles nervously, gives her a paper to sign, and he's out of the door. She runs a hand through her hair, eyes focusing on the creamy envelope sticking out of the bouquet.

She's ready to pluck it out, when a familiar pair of talons seize her shoulders, "Ah. What's this?"

"I'm not sure."

Her mom springs on the envelope, opening it, scanning it; her vibrant cheeks gain a little bit of color, or at least she thinks they do, her hands caressing the corners agitatedly, "Massie, why don't we go out tonight? Just you and me?"

She scrutinizes her mom's blank look, her fake smile, her fluttery breathing, and decides that her mom doesn't really want her to go, anyway, because she can just tell, "I don't think so, mom."

"Why not?"

"I have that literature passage to read, and I need some sleep-"

"Oh, I see. Your eyes _are_ getting a tad baggy around the edges," her mom grimaces for a second, before a smile blooms, and her voice heightens remarkably fast in pitch, "I'll just go out with myself."

"Okay-"

"I'd better get ready then!" With a feminine sniff of the flowers, her mom is off, the note clasped in her slender, bony hands, excitement streaming from her pores. She's fairly sure that the jump in her mom's steps and the flush in her face isn't the norm, but she has other things to worry about.

.

She stays complacent for a good five minutes until speaking up, "Why were you always there?"

His hands wrap tightly around the wheel, "Because I cared for you, Massie. You were the only friend I had-"

"Don't give me any of that 'I was so lonely' bullshit. You had a ton of friends, Derrick."

"Let me rephrase that: 'you were the only _true _friend I had_.' _I still think you are," he murmurs reflectively.

"I'm not, Derrick. Don't get me confused with that little girl on the beach."

He shakes his head a little, "She's still in there."

She admits defeat, craning her head to glance out of a window. They're in the suburbs, on a road that's vaguely familiar, but isn't yet ringing a bell.

"Why are we going this way?"

He doesn't answer; a mere few minutes later, he pulls into the driveway of a Victorian-styled mansion, "We're here."

Reaching into the backseat, he unlocks her handcuffs, grasps her hands, and tugs her out of the car, bringing her flustered body against his chest. He whispers, "I want you to know why your mom separated us, Massie, and I want you to know that she's wrong. I'll always love you."

He kisses her then, his lips gently prodding hers, his breath streaming through the slit between her lips. She kisses him hesitantly back, knowing she shouldn't, but wanting to so damn badly-

His tongue slips through the aperture, and she's jelly in his broad arms; he fingers her chin and hair, kissing her neck and lips in a ragged rhythm that she can't keep up with. He pulls away, propping his head on hers, letting one shaky, long breath out. He grabs her hand, kisses it, and lets it go, giving her a sad, confused look; doubt flashes across his face, the first bout that she's seen.

He hesitates, "You need to know, Massie. You do. We'll be together no matter what."

"Why did you leave me alone for so long?" She doesn't look at him, just resists the tears.

"Because you needed to be old enough, to be an adult-"

"Age doesn't matter," she replies defiantly.

"Yeah, Mass, yeah it does." His look is penetrating, until he breaks it, stringing her to the doorway.

He squeezes her hand.

.

**a/n-** LAMMMMEEE. Okay. I hope you liked this, Hannah, and hopefully any other reader, as well!(: Please review this for me? Only two more chapters left!


	3. discomfort at the peak

**a/n: **I'm really sorry for the faulty italicizing on the last chapter; I don't know why, but ff tends to mess up my documents after I upload them (I think I fixed it?) I'm also sorry for taking so long to update; I've had no internet on my computer, but I have a jump drive now, so it should be okay. xD On a better note: thank you all for the awesome reviews! They mean a lot, seriously. So, everyone enjoy, especially you, Han.(:

**Thirteen**

Her mom leaves an hour later in a rush of ebony curls, harried hugs, and red lipstick, which gives Massie the probable assumption that she might not be on a date with just herself. She shrugs off the suspicion, figuring that her dad might be the romantic (though she never had pegged him the type), and that he's probably meeting her mom over martinis, and that they're having some kind of joyous reunion, and that he's going to love them both again, and that everything's going to be fantastic when mom gets home.

She laughs dryly aloud at such a desperate fantasy and flicks on the reruns of That 70s Show, not really watching or hearing the mechanical laughs at the not-so-funny things said; it's 8:00 o'clock, and she's nervous and anxious and expecting, and she doesn't even know what she's supposed to do with herself.

The clock ticks by way too quickly. She's giddy- she's not sure why, but there's this tingle in her limbs and a breathless surge cascading through her; it doesn't feel right, it doesn't. She's not sure what it is, but she has her theories. Maybe she's just excited to see him, though she hopes that's not it. She had sworn to herself and to her mother, not to even be alone with him. But despite this and her anxiety, he's her good friend, and he's sad, and she thinks that he needs her right now.

The gold-embroidered clock reads 11:58; she walks nervously down the stairs, a pocketknife hatched in her silky pajama pocket. Her mom had wanted to buy pepper spray, but Massie had insisted that a knife would get the point across better. She doesn't love having it with her, but _just in case _as she figures. She sees his silhouette through the backdoor, the moonlight shining off of his broadening shoulders and frisked, blond curls. She takes a breath, washing back a glass of water, before tapping through the sliding door.

He side glances at her and whispers, "Hey."

"Hey."

"You're late-"

"It's my house," she replies defiantly.

He frowns, shaking his mop of hair. They stay that way for a while, backs pressed to the brick; their hands lay just a few tip lengths within each other, which she finds that she's unnervingly aware of. He breathes out long and hard; she inhales sharply, biting her lip. The silence becomes strikingly deafening.

He begins, "What did she say to you, Massie?"

"What did who say to me?"

She feels his glare, "Your mom. That night three months ago. What did she say to you?"

"Nothing much," she shrugs.

"That's a lie-"

"What's it to you?"

He takes action, grabbing her shoulders and staring her deep in the eyes, which is really freaky since they shouldn't be this close-

"Tell me."

His grip hurts her; she would beg, she would, if it weren't for the relentless, crazed look parading through his gaze.

She picks at his coarse arm hair and whispers, "She told me about sex, Derrick, ok?"

"Oh." He releases her shoulders. His look is relieved, almost, which is really confusing since she finds this comment monumental.

"Then why have you been avoiding me, silly?" He grabs her hands, smiling, eyes twinkling in immediate relief.

She pulls away, the beam in his countenance immediately disappearing, as if it was a copycat of the sun's blinking descent into its slumber. He enunciates strangely, "What else did she say, Mass?"

She tries to head back in and close the door, but he's not allowing such a thing; he follows very closely behind, trailing her to the foyer, "Leave me alone-"

He grabs her, "Tell me."

She finds it to be hopeless, so she grudgingly answers, "She said that all you've ever wanted is to-"

She bows her head; he tilts it up, staring deep and disconcertedly, "To what?"

She sighs gustily, "She said that all you've ever wanted is to take my virginity."

A low groan crawls from within the depths of his body, anger dusting his handsome features, "Bitch."

"Don't call her that!"

"But you know it's true," he mocks, features contorting, hands running through his hair.

"Get out, Derrick; please."

He pauses, "No, no, I won't, Massie, dammit. These last months have been hell, ok? Hell. And what has the-," he stutters, rage boiling, "the queen been doing? Soaking in satisfaction that I-I'm not-"

He paces.

"That you're not what, Derrie?" She whispers.

"It doesn't matter," she swears that there are tears in his eyes, but when he turns to her a few seconds later, his eyes are clear and bright, canvassing her quickly.

"I'm tired; I-I- want to go to bed, okay?"

He stares harder, but nods, nonetheless.

"Good night, Derrick," she tries to hide the hurt in her voice; no matter how mean and strange her mom can be, Massie loves her more than anything, and she hates that Derrick's trying to clip away that thread of sanity. She desperately needs that thread.

She walks to the counter, takes the Winchester pocketknife from her pocket, and clangs it onto the marble. She glances back at his widening eyes, and can't help giggling at his surprise.

"Massie, why the hell did you have a blade in your pajamas?"

"It's not a blade; it's a pocketknife," she attests, ascending the stairs.

"No, it's definitely a blade."

She laughs shakily, yells "night!", and races up the stairs. At the top, she looks down, only to find him a mere few feet away. She breathes in sharply, scared suddenly, because he's right here, and he most definitely shouldn't be.

"What are you-"

He snatches her hands, and what feels like her heart, into his grip, stepping level to her. He lets them go when their hips clang together.

"Were you gonna stab me?" He asks, taunting her. She wishes that she'd brought it with her. As if he read her thoughts he adds, "do you feel like you need it now?"

He breathes onto her neck; she tries, subconsciously, to shove him away, but, physically, her body won't obey. She's frozen, and she almost wants to be. His look is gentle and scathing all in one; his curls purposefully, yet not purposefully are flung across his brow; his hands are gentle, but rough, as they touch her face. His lips near hers; she didn't really suspect that this is why he came up the stairs, considering their five-minutes-earlier-conversation, though she's suddenly understanding her earlier feelings. It hadn't been excitement, anxiety, or fear she'd felt watching those horrific That 70s Show reruns, but desire. She feels shame, shame that she's so young and shouldn't be feeling like this already, shame that she's warm everywhere possible, and shame that Derrick knows what he's doing to her quivering body.

"Derrick," she murmurs, "this isn't right-"

He grins, a déjà vu of the ocean those few years back, as his softness presses against her lips. She doesn't resist. She can feel, can taste the anger in his thrusting tongue, in the nip of his teeth, in the groan he pours into her mouth; she can feel something else, something physical from him, something that makes her tremble in anxiety and fear and want. She has no idea what to do, not mentally, yet physically, her body arches; her vocal cords want to make noise to please its mate, to encourage the actions he's making with her: it's near to impossible to resist, but she tries. She pushes him away, only to have him assault her neck; she sighs as quietly as possible, breathing hard, but not wanting him to know it.

"Mass," he breathes, hands on her abdomen and traveling steadily upwards.

"Please, don't-"

He glues himself to her, pushing her hair away from her face, observing the thickening shine on her brow; he smiles crookedly, a sign of contentment, kissing her again softer, gentler, more considerately.

The door slams, "Massie, are you asleep, darling?"

She snaps away, pushing him into the bedroom. Finding that he's stashed under her bed, eyes staring imperceptibly up, she noisily closes the door, emerging to the top of the staircase to look down at her mom, "Wha-?"

"Massie, sweetie, you truly are a rough sleeper," a visible grimace from her mom's flawless face, "go back to bed."

"How was your self-date?" She inquires, trying to add to the believability of the situation.

Her mom waves her off, "I'll tell you later; get some sleep." Massie pretends that she doesn't hear the mumbled "You look like you need it."

She creeps back to her room, finding the window open, its outspread wings beckoning in mischievous, rustling leaves that settle like sunbathing birds into her plush carpet; a lavender-scented note appears like a lone, lost sparrow, quivering across her bed; it reads, "I'll see you soon."

She shakes off her ongoing turmoil.

.

"Who's house is this?"

"My dad's."

"And why are we here?"

"It's a good environment," he states plainly.

"A good environment for what, Derrick?"

He leads her into an attractive parlor room, furnished with leather sofas, caged bourbon, and mahogany-paneled coffee tables. He crosses the room and closes the curtains.

He starts, "I have to tell you something. Something you really need to know."

"Why couldn't you tell me back there? Why here?" She throws him a disbelieving, condescending glance, plopping obstinately down on the cold leather. She pulls down the satin dress, Derrick watching ever sensual move; she pauses, "Did you bring me here for other reasons, Derrie?"

Her eyes catch his, clings, as she takes off her heels.

"Stop, Mass. Not right now."

"Oh, great, thanks," she rushes, a tad humiliated, "I wasn't trying anything anyway."

He rolls his eyes.

"Just get this shit out, okay? I want to go home."

He exhales, "When I was twelve, I found my dad in his room involved in," he glances at her, "..activities."

"Who was he fucking?" Boring.

"Obviously, not my mom," he mumbles sadly. She curses inwardly, having forgotten that Derrick's mom had died when he was ten from an "accidental drowning."

"I'm sorry."

It's fine," he clears his throat, "Anyway. I was angry, and I didn't know what was going on. I didn't understand how he could.. betray my mom like that, ya know? He saw me; they both did, standing in the doorway, looking like an idiot, tears everywhere and shit. He promised me that I could have whatever I wanted as long as I told no one who his lover was, because it would create a lot of drama, as he put it. I knew her too; I'd seen her everywhere. She was pretty famous back then. But I agreed."

"Who was she?" She inserted eagerly.

"I'm getting there," he holds a hand up, "I told him that I wanted to go to the Hamptons, so I could surf and swim in the ocean. I wanted to honor my mother's memory. Even though she drowned, swimming was her passion, and I damn well knew that I needed to continue the practice. He agreed after a few minutes, knowing he had no other choice," his eyes gloss over, "and that's when I saw you, Massie. I had wanted to go night swimming, so I climbed the fence and ran onto the beach and found you just sitting there, looking like a grouch and a princess at the same time. Even at twelve, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

She blushes, regretting it instantly, "But how did you know that it was me? How did you know my last name?"

"You remember that," he states, rather than asks, a tone of flat humor poisoning his voice.

"Yes," she answers slowly.

She feels his build-up, as he steps backward, glancing upwards at the ceiling, his eyes a glossy glaze, "Because my dad was fucking your mom, Massie."

She exhales slowly, closing her eyes to the obvious revelation.

"I'm sorry, Derrie, I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," he breathes out airily, crossing the room, kneeling in front of her, taking her hands, "I would never blame you for that."

It hurts to know that her mom was cheating. It's not at all shocking to her, but it's harsh and horrid, and she hates feeling this way: loving her mom and hating her, though she knows loving her will always emerge victorious. As it always has. She looks up at Derrick and finds tears poking down his face, "Derrick.. What is it? Is there something else?"

She hears a little sob, before he recovers, releasing her hands, wiping his handsome face, "Yeah."

"Just tell me," there's a deepening clog in her throat that she's suddenly scared of; it doesn't feel healthy. It feels foreign and wrong, and she doesn't want it there, but whatever swallowing techniques she uses, it continues to sit there, weighing what seems to be ten pounds. She gives herself relief by letting a tear fall a runaway.

"It was long-term," he whispers hoarsely.

"How long-term?" She wrings her hands together tightly, denying the coming statement, because, dear fucking God, it can't be, it can't.

"Before you were born, kind of long-term."

She takes a deep breath, "Does that mean you could be my half-brother?" It's a sickening, horrifying silence that follows.

Then a quietly uttered, "Yes."

.

**a/n:** CLIFFIE, OMG. THE JOY. So, one more chapter, and this strange tale shall conclude. Review for my sanity, please?


	4. burn

**a/n- **So, this is the **last **chapter. I know that I should have posted this a while ago, but I just.. didn't. Oops. I really hoped that everyone has liked this, especially, you Banana. Thank you to everyone for the reviews. They've made me really happy. xD Enjoy?

.

**Fifteen**

She loses her virginity to him in her backyard. It's under her oak tree; in itself, the act isn't wonderful nor magical, but she now she knows what the fuss is all about, and she actually feels happy, lying next to him on springy grass, as they exchange their cheesy Eskimo kisses and suck on cubed _ice, _just because they want to.

"You okay?" He asks gently, stroking her face.

"I should have a million dollars for how many times you've asked that. Because you've asked it, like, a million times," she grins.

"I can't help that I love you so much," he whispers; she freezes, shocked and overjoyed, not really knowing what to do. Nature seems to embrace what they've done: the wind flaps scents of roses and lilacs their way; leaves fly across them, hunter green slashes across the beige blanket that covers their nervous consummation.

Good moments always end.

"Massie, darling, where are you? We need to talk about that salon bill-"

Her mom, hair in a flawless chignon, eyes beautifully made-up, skin artificially smooth, pauses her strutting out of the backdoor, her expression one of abstract horror. She jumps:

"Dammit, you son of a bitch, how could you"? Her mom runs to them, takes in the thin blanket and their wide, guilty eyes, and screams shrilly.

"Go, Massie, go," he whispers urgently to her, his look discouragingly blank; she can see the fear in his eyes despite his bravado, but obeys, grabbing her clothes and running.

Her mom's screams become almost incoherent, "Der-Derrick, you knew! You fucking knew! What the hell were you thinking?"

"He knew what?" She shouts, stopping outside of the door, her sweaty fingers enclosing the handle; but they're occupied: Derrick's standing up, having shoved his boxers on, his eyes visibly aflame, while her mom's in a tantrum of sorts, shoving her fists near his face, spitting, her hair falling out of her fancy updo, strand by strand.

Her mom comes to attention, her middle fingers erectly outstretched, "Go to hell," she scathingly spits into Derrick's face, "you knew."

"You know there's a chance that-" he pauses to look at Massie, "go inside, Mass, please." She hates this: being excluded in a conversation about her, something they both know that she doesn't.

Her mom pivots, eyes piercing, "Go inside, and to your room. Now." That's all the cue she needs.

"Don't hurt him, mom-"

"You're never to speak to him again, Massie, and he'll obey that if he knows what's good for him," her mom turns her attention back to Derrick, leaving Massie in boundless tears and strengthening confusion.

She runs inside, away from their shouts, away from the drama that she doesn't really want to know about.

.

It's euphoria, really. She didn't know it before, but now she understands her strange panic attacks. They're caused by euphoria. Because as the world begins to spin, the room a dizzy mess, all she can think of are her forgotten cigarettes in her car and how she never learned to use them. Then she thinks of her mom's albino Chihuahua, of French braids, of common whores' names, and the world lightens substantially. And reality punches her hard, deep in her abdomen; she feels his hands caressing her face, his lips pressing persistently on hers, as if she'd fucking died or something and he was trying to resuscitate her, his voice screaming "I love you" a thousand times in her ears, but she doesn't heed it, doesn't even believe it; he's her brother, and he'd led her on the whole time, fucked the living shit out of her, taken every fucking thing she had, her dad, her mom, her common sense, her heart, and she can't function- not right now.

"Get-get-the-" She sobs suddenly, pinching her leg, begging herself to get it out, "Get-get the fuck away from me."

"Massie, there's more-" He pleads, trying tirelessly hard to bring her to him.

"No, no, no! I won't hear anymore. You're my half-brother-"

"No!" He shouts, "I said that I _might_ be your half-brother. _Might_."

"You're why my dad hates me, dammit, why I never see him, why my mom hates me, you stupid motherfuck-"

"No! Massie, no! That was your mom and my dad's fault; I don't know how your dad found out, but it wasn't me," his eyes are a deep shade of brown, darkening haughtily along the way, as a wildly disturbing gleam slides through his mien.

She's listening.

"I do know that your dad didn't know at your birth, I swear-"

"How do you know that? You were two. Two, Derrick," she scathingly and wittily adds, "Ooh, but I bet you were creepy and disgusting enough to understand sex then-"

"Stop being immature, Mass," he shakes his head, "there's a way to find out; we could do a DNA test and everything-"

She quietly comments, "It wouldn't make a difference."

His expressive face freezes, "What?"

"You've lied to me for years, Derrick. And even if you aren't my brother, then you're still a liar and you disgust me, and I never want to see you again."

"Please, Massie, don't-"

"I said something like that once," she sniffs, sending him a cold smile, "But you couldn't resist your sister's charm, apparently?"

His eyes boil up and let loose their contents in useless, salty tributaries; he whispers, "You're all I have."

"I guess you've lost it all then-"

He inserts desperately, "You were supposed to believe me, love me, no matter what."

"I'm sorry" is her flung reply. She dries her tears, slips on her shoes, and continues her façade, through the knife that's cutting out her heart, slapping it on the ground, and stomping it; she appears omniscient, like she's expected something like this, but she hadn't. Never could she have imagined this.

"Keys," she demands.

His eyes are red and watering, the magnificent caramel still shining through in glory; his hair is a tumbleweed of blond and chocolate licking his high cheekbones and encouraging a path to his shockingly crimson lips; his mouth opens, white teeth clicking together, "Please" is his low, growling, grating plea: it sends chills through her limbs, agony through her nerves, pity through her cells.

She holds her charade for a second, snatching the keys from him, "I can't." They fall as she walks away. They fall as she opens the door. They fall as she withdraws the bottle of vodka he'd left inside her car and downs a huge gulp. They fall as he pounds on the window. And they fall as she tells him to "fuck himself." Her heart is gone, she's not sure where, but she decides it's not on vacation or sitting next to her, not even on her sleeve; she figures that it's probably in the palm of the boy outside of her window.

She drives an endlessly long time, not knowing what to do or where to go, so she opts for home, the supposed place for treasured memories, irrevocable love, and futuristic notions.

.

**Sixteen**

She hates not seeing him, but her mother, her raging tyrant of a mother, is as furious as she's ever seen her. Weekly fights dry out her mother's usually rich-chocolate, head of hair; her coal black eyes lose a little of their fueled glow; and her skin begins to show a hint of age in the arrival of crow's feet and brow lines. Massie can already smell the Botox.

"I know having sex with him probably wasn't the best choice, mom, but why can't I see him?" She asks, exasperated, her mind in a mental fiasco.

"Because he's not a good boy, Massie; he'll ruin you," her mom answers, voice strangely off-pitch, tears glimmering in her eyes.

"He's been away a year, mom!" She adds, "And you don't know him, anyway."

"Yes, I do; I know him more than you think I do," her mom's comment is issued by a gusty sigh, "I need to go into town. If you contact him in any way, I'll know."

She watches her mom snatch up her Chloe purse, slip her shoes into some Choo's, and trot to the door; she stops to give Massie a glare, "You've been warned."

She waves cynically, a million curse words willing to burst forth, but she retains them.

The door slams, and she jumps into the anxious fit that's been boiling inside. Derrick had contacted her that morning to meet him in the backyard. She's not sure how this is possible with the stringent security her mother has constructed, but she still doesn't doubt that he'll be there.

Now that she thinks about it, this is really the first day that she's been alone in almost a year; her mom had hired babysitters, _babysitters_, to stay with her, and ensure she was doing nothing, except watching the Travel Channel, Barefoot Contessa, and an occasional episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. It had been torture, but now she's semi-free, and all she can think of is Derrick, and how badly she wants to talk to him. She wants to kiss him and reassure him that her mom is a bitch and that she never wanted any of the drama to happen. She wants to tell him that she's sorry.

She walks outside quickly, glancing around. It's windy for spring and actually a little chilly. She shivers with her arm-skittering chill bumps, seeing an empty yard. She heads to the line of ivy green bushes, freshly trimmed by the new gardener, and touches them in nostalgia. She huffs, and stands silently, listening for anything. A giggle catches her ear: she glances in the other yard and breathes in a sharp gasp; he's standing there, his jacket half off his shoulder, his head thrown back in a laugh. There's a girl straddling him, her lips on his neck; he suddenly turns his head to Massie, as if he had planned it all and sends her an assessing stare. He holds up a finger in a "Once I get done with this, I'll sneak through your window" signal.

She can feel the tears, heavy in her lids, surge to the forefront; the betrayal slices, the bile approaches. She takes a deep breath, trying to burn the image; she flees to her house, retrieves a fluffy pillow from her closet, and forms her body to it, attempting to stop the bleeding he's caused. She presses harder, but finds that it's really not helping.

Two hours pass and a distant knock caresses the window. She lets him in, though her eyes are puffy and her stomach is in anxious shreds. He steps silently into her room, his sleek leather jacket intact; she doesn't approach him, because he seems distant and cold and not her Derrick.

"Why did you leave?" She asks, her voice not near as solid as she had hoped it would be.

He turns his head, "Because your mom wanted me to-"

"Fuck her!"

"Massie," she sees him, the real him for a moment, "there will be a time, fairly soon, when I come for you-"

"During summertime would be perfect," she comments blankly.

"No, a little longer than that," he whispers.

She makes a move, tries to hug him, but he gently pushes her arms off, not meeting her eyes.

"What's wrong? You let that Claire whore next door touch all over you, and I can't even give you a hug?" She fiercely accosts.

"I wanted to see if you still cared-"

"You could've asked!"

"See you later, Mass," he looks back, his brown eyes wide and searching, before he slides through the window and is gone. She collapses on her bed and tries to keep her sanity. He's left her. Again.

But she knows that he'll keep his word, strange as he acts.

.

Her home lingers over her as she steps out of the car, sneezing sporadically from her over-abundant amount of tears; her throat has swollen a bit, and she finds it hard to breathe regularly. The weather's turned into one of those eerie days when the sky isn't overcast, but it's not clear and blue and overflowing with translucent cotton candy either; there's an iridescent gray film settling over the atmosphere that's as disconcerting as it is hauntingly beautiful. The wind is coarse and cold, shattering even the plumpest and healthiest of lips into dried-up raisins. The naked trees' dislocated limbs beckon her to her home; she wants to refuse such a call, but knows that running away will solve nothing.

The walk is short; she finds her mom sitting on the couch, flipping through Cosmo. She flings her head back in acknowledgement, having heard Massie's heels on the floor.

"Take those shoes off," she demands, "and where did you go? I waited for ages in the restaurant, but you never came back from the bathroom."

She clears her throat for the coming calamity, "I was talking to Derrick."

She can almost see her mom's pulse quicken, her fluttery hands flying to her mouth, "I told you not to ever talk to him again."

"We're adults now, Kendra," she icily replies.

"He'll poison you, Massie-"

"So, him telling me he's probably my half-brother is his way of poisoning me?"

Her mom's face whitens considerably; she seems to choke on something, the air, her spit, her conscious, Massie's not quite sure-

"He told you" comes out as a frigid statement, though there's no denial there. Lying is too late.

"He did," she nods imperceptibly.

"Massie, please, there's a chance that he's not related to you at all-"

"That makes no difference to me, Kendra; you were still fucking Derrick's dad when you were married to William," she smiles grimly, "he was the person that sent you those flowers"? was her rhetorical inquiry, "And then you went on a date with him later that night? Those late business calls, meetings, conferences- those weren't real either, were they? Were you and him in a fancy hotel fuc-"

"That's enough," guilt flashes across her face, "I was wrong back then, Massie, and I regret it, okay? I regret it. But I wasn't the only guilty one. You-your-dad took multiple rendezvous and _left _me, his new bride, at home as he skipped around my back with other women. I couldn't take that. And Andrew, Derrick's father, was always right there. He was so handsome; but he wasn't available either. I was scared, and he was in the same situation as I was," she sniffs, "a loveless marriage."

Her conscious breaks at such a quick statement; knowing that her parents never loved each other at all is excruciating to hear.

"And he was romantic, so much more romantic than-" she stops short, glancing at Massie's livid face, regaining her composure, "he was a wonderful guy-"

"Why did you end it?" She grits painfully.

"Because of Derrick; I was starting to worry. A friendship between you two had been barely acceptable, but not anything more, obviously," she breathes out, long and hard, "I should have never let him near you, dammit.. It's not like I could actually tell you that the your best friend might be your half-brother."

"Why not, Kendra? Look what your stupidity has done to me! I'm ruined, everything's ruined, all because of your lies," she enunciates piercingly.

"Massie, I'm sorry-"

"Oh, so now you're sorry? Were you sorry for killing Derrick's mom too?"

Her mom gasps loudly, "I didn't-"

"And why wouldn't you?" She asks, reluctant tears in her eyes .

"I'm not a murderer, Massie; she was on drugs; she died because she passed out in the pool and drowned," her voice is torn and ragged, "how could you think that I would-that I could do something like that?"

"Because you're a manipulative bitch that does anything to get what she wants," she attacks, throwing her heels off and stabbing a finger at her now disheveled mom.

"Please, Massie, don't-"

"I've already heard that one today," she comments, shoving her hair into a clip; a flush feels its way through her cheeks, irritating her already frustrated persona.

"I love you," she whispers.

It's a shock to her mom say it so plainly and so genuinely. She's never really heard it before; maybe her mom had uttered it when she was a baby, when she was a toddler, when she was asleep, perhaps, but never when she was alive in the mental sense. She'd doubted her mom's love her whole life-

"Why are you telling me this now? To get my sympathy? My forgiveness?" She turns her head away.

"No," she murmurs, "because I never told you like I should have."

"Okay," decidedly, she walks out, slides into her car, glancing up at the whimsical sky with disgust, not comprehending why life is like it is or why it hurts or why it just doesn't make sense.

She finds her phone to be ringing in her clutch, flashing "unknown" across the screen. It's impulse, maybe even euphoria again. She answers-

"Mass?" His voice is deep and scratchy, practically incoherent.

"Yeah?"

"I need you."

"You're my brother-"

He interjects, "Not necessarily; but I'm your best friend- the only one you've had and the only one you will have. Please let me come to you. No pressure, nothing. Just you and me, okay?"

She weakens a bit at the softness, his lilting intonations, "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have answered-"

"Don't hang up," he whispers, "don't hang up."

Fuck. She's not sure what she's doing or what she's feeling, because she hated him ten minutes ago and now she's breaking and she doesn't know what to fucking do-

"Mass?" His voice trembles.

"I-" Her phone beeps, signaling that someone's calling; to her utmost surprise, it's her father.

She sniffs, mutters a "I gotta go," and answers the other line.

"Massie? Are you there?" She listens to her Dad's light, airy voice filling the speaker; he sounds a bit worried, or maybe it's just a bad signal, because she hears a distinctive crack, and she's not sure if it's his voice or not.

"Yes, William," she hears his sigh.

"Your mom told me what happened," he comments after a brief silence.

"That was quick."

"You know your mother," he chuckles dryly and pauses, expectations blooming in her at his silence, "I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you, and I'm sorry that you didn't know about Derrick. I'm not sorry that you didn't know about the affairs, but, Derrick? That's different."

"I don't know what to do, Daddy," she suppresses a strangled sob, unknowledgeable on how to talk to him, considering he hasn't been close to her since she was nine.

"It'll be okay, Massie-"

"How?" She exclaims, "How?"

"Calm down. I'm coming home tomorrow, and I'm going to be there for you." She can't ever remember him being a considerate person, and hopes, dear God, she hopes that he doesn't have ulterior motives.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Should I take the DNA test?" She meekly inquires.

There's brief intermission, where he breathes steadily; she can hear the indecisiveness in his sudden sigh, "It's your choice; but if it was up to me, I'd do it, Massie."

She nods, "Thanks."

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow," she listens for the sudden click, but after five seconds, instead he murmurs an, "I love you, baby."

She manages to gurgle an embarrassing "I love you too," before she slams her thumb into the end button.

She puts her head into her hands, and grabs her phone, redialing his number.

It picks up with a shattered, "Hello?"

"Derrick?"

"Mass?

"I want to take that test."

.

**a/n-** Omygosh, this was so lame, and I just noticed how dramatic it is, bahahaha. xD Please review for my crashing self-esteem, ok? This was my first multi-chap, and I need help. I hoped you all liked it, anyway, and especially you, Hannah (just in case you didn't know, she goes by "in the jungle dances.") HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY!(:

-livvy


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